


Xanny

by hitmewiththatfanart33



Series: Sanders Sides Oneshots [1]
Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Based on a Billie Eilish Song, Drug Use, Gen, High School, Human Sides (Sanders Sides), M/M, Prinxiety - Freeform, Song: Xanny (Billie Eilish), logan is drunk, logicality - Freeform, more details in the notes, virgil is kinda high
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:26:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24833059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hitmewiththatfanart33/pseuds/hitmewiththatfanart33
Summary: Patton angst based off the song Xanny by Billie Eilish, in which Patton finds himself beaten down by the endless cycle of parties and drugs he's found himself in. He thinks it's time for some new friends.
Relationships: Anxiety | Virgil Sanders/Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders, Logic | Logan Sanders/Morality | Patton Sanders
Series: Sanders Sides Oneshots [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1796293
Comments: 4
Kudos: 45





	Xanny

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Drugs, alcohol, toxic friends (not any of the sides), minor non-consensual drugging (with edibles), brief slur for someone thought to be promiscuous, brief mention of throwing up, a little cursing, a few innuendos, Logan is a tad drunk but not obnoxiously so, and Virgil is high without displaying it much. Pre-romantic Prinxiety and Logicality.

_What is it about them?_

If there was one thing Patton learned the hard way— correction: he was naive, so he always learned things the hard way, but this one took the cake, didn't it?— it was that people don't always stay the same.

_I must be missing something._

He'd met them in middle school, his friends. They were the popular kids— _he_ was a popular kid... Everybody loved him. Or... at least he _thought_ they did. He was "that nice kid, Patton." He was that kid who had somehow already been labeled as a slut despite never having done anything, just because he'd dated a girl and a boy on separate occasions, making him the person _everybody_ hit on. It made his skin crawl to not be able to walk the halls without eyes trailing over him, or even sit at lunch without someone sliding up next to him to flirt.

And it had all started when he'd gotten to high school; started with them.

_They just keep doing nothing,_

They'd been so _nice_ in middle school— so easy to get along with. They took him in and kept him updated on all the trendy things...

And then suddenly things changed so fast that it made Patton's head spin, and **he hadn't signed up for this.** But he couldn't get out, could he? He'd be alone and ridiculed. Besides, they weren't bad people. Patton _loved_ his friends... he did.

_Too intoxicated to be scared._

So he **let** them drag him to the parties, and he **let** them push him around, and he **let** them put his life in danger _time after time after time_ because it didn't even matter, did it? He was being a baby, and he needed to suck it up. So what if the car he'd been in last year had crashed? It was better than being whiny, and walking all the way home in the dead of night like he had just because he was scared (and having a panic attack, but that was beside the point.) He had just been paranoid, or else his friends wouldn't have gotten home safely, only to laugh at him the next day.

_Better off without them._

That didn't mean he _liked_ the thick, suffocating smoke, or the way their breath smelled when they drank, or how they all got so loud and reckless and _annoying._ It didn't mean he thought the stumbling or the laying on the floor or the tweaking-out was _cool_. He _hated_ when they tried to force their idea of fun onto him, in fact. He didn't need these things to feel good. He didn't need to forget or let go or numb himself. He was happy up until the second one of them walked in the room, and maybe he should have taken that as a sign he needed to leave.

But he was stupid.

And gullible.

And didn't know when people were using him because he was too terrified of not being liked.

Of rejection.

Of being alone.

Or maybe he did know, and he was just too weak to fight back.

_They're nothing but unstable._

He sighed, further pressing himself into the arm of the couch, trying desperately to subtly breathe through his shirt. The smell of smoke made him sick. _Nothing_ about it was appealing, and it only made things worse that he associated the smell with his mother after it'd followed her around like a trail before she eventually stopped coming home from work. (Not that he cared. He only ever felt close to his dad.) She wouldn't even stop smoking when she had Patton in the car with her: there was practically always a cigarette in her hand, and if there wasn't, something was wrong. So maybe his vendetta against it was a bit more personal, but that didn't take away the fact that it was disgusting and pointless; just another addiction to 'keep the capitalism wheel turning' as his dad would say.

_Bring ashtrays to the table,_

His drink, a mere coke— making him feel like a baby, but _somebody_ had to keep a clear head— stayed close to his chest because there was no telling what these people would do. It was chilling his fingers, and the odor of everyone's sweat almost rivaled that of the hazy cloud that drowned the tiny apartment. Who had thought putting so many people in this small of a space was a good idea? Patton felt like the walls were closing in, hardly able to hear a thing his friend was saying _right next to him._

At first, these parties had made his chest seize with panic, tears fill his eyes, and his breath come out in choppy gasps, but now he just felt empty, sick, tired... He just wanted it to be over.

_And that's about the only thing they share._

At a party where there was nothing to do but drugs, how was he _supposed_ to enjoy himself? By counting the scratches in the wood of the cluttered table? There were no games, nobody danced— either because they were too unsteady on their feet, or they weren't on their feet at all: passed out or too high to move— and he couldn't think of anything he would have in common with any of them when the only things they shared were ashtrays, rolling paper, lighters, and miscellaneous substances. He didn't understand it, and he didn't want to. What he wanted was to go home.

_I'm in their second-hand smoke,_

He stopped trying to breathe through his shirt, and he sat up, setting his drink down. With these events, he lost either way. Don't show up: lose your friends; show up and act like a stick-in-the-mud freak: get outcast and tormented. He'd learned to just smile and say he had to drive— now that he'd gotten a license after _the incident_ — though that only made things worse for him because now he was everyone's ride.

_Still just drinking canned coke._

The apartment itself was lifeless and boring, in need of some decorating or colors at least, but with the kind of people that likely owned it, he could tell why it was dull. See? He didn't even know whose house he was in. When had he lost himself?

_I don't need a xanny to feel better._

There were maybe... three?— people he knew here. Justin sat next to him with a black silicone pipe to match his hair and a giggle on his lips, eyes looking as if they'd been pepper-sprayed. Another— Rachel— floated around the kitchen, subtly drinking as much as she could so that she could get wasted while not seeming like she was out of control or being stingy with the alcohol. The third probably had some girl in a corner, and her tongue was likely down his throat if Patton had any guess. It made him nauseous.

_On designated drives home._

This being high school, the heavier things were less common, but Patton wouldn't be surprised if one of these times someone wound up snorting powder on the coffee table. Unfortunately that didn't mean that there weren't _several_ people tripping on acid at the moment. He'd been offered a tab, but he'd declined because that just wasn't appealing to him. None of this was appealing to him. To him, a high wasn't worth the fear, the loss of control, the risk of being caught, _the risk of going crazy_ — because that was possible: acid wasn't something to mess around with. He didn't want to feel sad or anxious when he came down because he already felt fine, and he wasn't risking messing that up to "feel good."

_Only one who's not stoned._

_'Thirty more minutes, and then I can make an excuse to leave,'_ he told himself. Just thirty more minutes of this torture. Why couldn't he just be a normal teenager with normal friends who groaned at his dad jokes and wanted to play board games and watch cartoons and just live life without artificial feelings and danger? Without reckless people and smells that choked him?

_Don't give me a xanny now or ever._

His friend had set down the pipe at some point, and was now collapsed over on his shoulder, causing Patton to hold his breath in discomfort. God, he loved physical affection— craved it— but not like this. This wasn't right. This wasn't a hug from someone he could smile with. It wasn't meant to comfort him: it was forced upon him. Why was everyone forcing things on him?!

Tears flooded his eyes, breaking his near week-long streak of numbness in an emotional downpour. And of course that had to be when Rachel came over to talk to him as if they hadn't stopped being friends two years ago. "You look so tense, Patty," she pouted, and he knew what came next. The manipulation, the cajoling, the convincing.

Maybe he'd give in this time. Right? Because yes was always supposed to be on the table, and no was never final to them. They were just going to keep asking until they got tired of Patton.

_Waking up at sundown,_

"Please just take a Xanax at least," she begged with a slouch, "It's not even that bad or else they wouldn't prescribe it." She fished around in the front pocket of her skin-tight jeans until she produced a little white pill. "Here."

_They're late to every party._

He allowed her to drop it into the palm of his hand, which was further than he'd let anyone get before, and he had to admit that he was fully resigned to finally just listen. There wasn't an ounce of fight left in him. So what if something bad happened to him? It couldn't be any worse than this exhausting cycle of parties and drugs and boredom and loneliness and the loss of such a happy childhood regardless of its own hardships.

_Nobody's ever sorry,_

The little white pill stared at him from beyond his glasses, its weight lighter than he'd thought, and the thought crossed his mind that maybe it wasn't that bad. It was just supposed to make you feel relaxed, and that was all... In fact, it was exactly what he needed right now...

 ** _No._** He wouldn't even be "needing" it if he weren't in this uncomfortable situation in the first place! It was _wrong_. This wasn't _his_ Xanax prescription, he wasn't anxious, and he sure as hell didn't need to change any aspect of himself over other people's issues. The very pill itself was one of the things causing his "uptight-ness," it wasn't the solution to it.

_Too inebriated now to dance._

Yet still, he gave her a thin-lipped smile, popping it into his mouth, sliding it under his tongue. She seemed surprised and satisfied with that, giving him a drunken nod. "See? That wasn't so bad," she cooed as if he were a child taking cold medicine before ruffling his hair and shuffling away to who-knows-where.

He hoped it was to puke in the bathroom, not only because she aggravated him, but because it was better there than his car.

_Morning as they come down,_

He maneuvered the pill out of his mouth, frustratedly sticking it in the couch cushions, pushing his friend off of his shoulder in the process. Patton had thought he was asleep, but a tired groan and a look told him he was merely just messed up.

_Their pretty heads are hurting._

Why was he like this? Why couldn't he just let go and take a couple pills? What would it do? And if he had such a big problem with it, why couldn't he just walk away? There was nothing except his social status standing in the way of him getting in his car right now and leaving.

He must be so incredibly weak to already know he wasn't going to leave, all because it meant that he'd have nobody...

If he didn't hang out with _Rachel_ and _Justin_ and _Gunner_ , then nobody would even know his name, and rather than be "that nice kid, Patton," he'd just be "that weird, childish slut."

That couldn't happen.

_They're awfully bad at learning._

Twenty five-ish more minutes until he could safely leave. He just had to hold it together and not cry, which he was finding to be alarmingly more easy than usual. When had this become a routine?

_Make the same mistakes, blame circumstance._

To give his hands and mouth something to do other than stay stiff and silent, he picked up his coke again from where it'd left a ring on the table, finishing the whole thing off out of nervousness. Rachel came back then, barely swaying, and looking at him like she was in an entirely different world. "You like gummy bears, right? I found a bag in the pantry. Here." She dropped a handful of the candy in his surprised palm with a smile as if she'd accomplished something great, and Patton forgot all about his discomfort for a moment to match her gleeful look. It felt nice to know someone was thinking about him.

_I'm in their second-hand smoke,_

To know— that beyond the substances and the misery— such a small, random thing as gummy bears were there to pull his focus away and make him smile, made him appreciate the world a little more. It made him feel special where he'd felt so small. At least Rachel was trying to make this a little better for him, and the fact that it was a small gesture made it all the better considering that finding anything joyful in this apartment was near impossible. She had to have been actively keeping an eye out.

Maybe the word 'friend' wasn't such a blatant lie after all.

_Still just drinking canned coke._

His shoulders relaxed, and in no time at all, he was able to concentrate on chewing the somewhat tough things rather than how much he wanted to leave. Rachel joined them on the couch, wedging her way between him and Justin to cutely curl up on Patton's lap, passing out after a few minutes of him absent-mindedly petting her hair with his free hand. This party wasn't as bad as he'd begun to think. After all, _someone_ needed to look after these idiots.

_I don't need a xanny to feel better._

There was no telling how many he ate. Maybe it was six, maybe it was as many as ten. That didn't seem like such a big number until you knew what they did to you.

He didn't do drugs, so how could he have known?

Maybe because he was surrounded by them, by alcohol, and by all the different types of people who used the substances. Maybe because they tasted weird. Maybe because _nothing_ ever went right in these situations.

It was his fault.

He was the only sober one, after all.

Rachel was just drunk and didn't know what she was doing.

_Please don't try to kiss me on the sidewalk on your cigarette break._

Suddenly the world was tilting, and his palm was empty, time becoming an all-too-fast blur and slow crawl all at once. Had it been minutes since Rachel had approached him? Hours? The room spun, almost, but he knew that it was just him. His stomach felt sick— _he_ felt sick.

Oh, but his mind was racing at a thousand images per second; ideas both terrifying and colorful. Like how he'd dreamt a nameless face was pulling him, grabbing him, trying to kiss him, but their mouth tasted sour. Or that he'd imagined colorful candy and bright neon. It was— he wanted it to stop...

_I can't afford to love someone who isn't dying by mistake in Silver Lake._

Somewhere in that blur, Rachel left, and he desperately clawed for and grasped at any sort of clear thought or memory. Had someone been laughing? Who? Why? How long ago had that been?

God, he was so scared.

He didn't understand. What was happening? Why couldn't he think? Why couldn't he control himself? Those hadn't been gummy bears, had they?

He just wanted to go home— wanted this to be over. He felt horrible, the room was hot, and he couldn't _think_.

_What is it about them?_

He stopped hugging himself— when had he started digging his fingers so tightly into his arms?— and forced his body to get _up_. There was no way he was driving, so he didn't quite know where he was going, (he didn't know anything, really), he just knew that he wanted out. Air sounded nice.

_I must be missing something._

Dizzy. He was so dizzy, and the ground felt much too far below his feet than it should. Or maybe his feet were simultaneously heavier and lighter all at once. It was a strange thing.

_They just keep doing nothing._

The second he'd made it to the top of the metal steps outside, he sat down, leaning against the start of the railing where it met at a corner. Amidst the many things he _didn't_ notice, he clearly made out the things people had carved into the black paint like "K + L" in a heart and a sloppily-done "fuck." At least the air felt nice when everything else felt so wrong...

_Too intoxicated to be scared..._

***

"He just looked so uncomfortable," Logan voiced his concern for not the first time in the past ten minutes. Roman and Virgil paused their conversation with a sigh, looking at the usually put-together and expressionless nerd as he pouted and pined after the cute boy with curly blond hair on the couch. It was hysterical to see his hair all mussed and pushed up by the tie he'd decided to turn into a bandana. He almost looked like a sexy pirate, his black button-up having come untucked and... slightly unbuttoned.

In summary, if Virgil and Roman weren't obliviously yearning after each other, it was possible they'd be fighting over him. But for the time being, they were here to protect him while he took a rare opportunity to let loose, completely of his own desire. Roman hadn't even suggested they do anything, he'd just mentioned the party his neighbors had invited him to because he knew Virgil occasionally smoked weed to tame his anxiety since he couldn't be put on medication, and they'd jumped on board. Roman had decided to stay sober in case anything happened and they needed him.

And they were all having a great time, just about to leave because everything was dying down with how out-of-it everyone seemed to be, (his neighbors were a bit... extreme,) but Logan couldn't stop looking in concern to that boy who had sat so stiffly on the couch, zoned out the entire time. It wasn't right that he was suddenly slumping over.

That he looked so scared and confused.

That his head lolled no matter how many times he tried to keep it upright.

He didn't even seem to notice his friend getting up, and all of a sudden he was sitting upright again, clutching himself like he was nauseous.

Virgil and Roman were a bit worried themselves, though they tried their best to brush it off because it wasn't any of their business. Logan didn't seem to care about whose "business" it was. His stubborn mind had just been freed of any care, and he was very vocal with his thoughts.

"I'm sure he's fine," Roman claimed, waving his hand around. Virgil's cheeks were still dusted with a blush from how aware he'd been of Roman's proximity as they'd spoken. "Like, he just downed an entire handful of edibles, so he's probably just really spacy," he dismissed, changing the subject, "We should go back to my room and play cards or something... I'm in the mood for Jackbox, how about you?"

"No!" Logan stubbornly protested, and both the emo and the actor raised their eyebrows at him in surprise. "He uh... he— he— fuck." For a moment he was quiet, trying to organize his speech. He ran a hand up his face, further messing up his hair, but it seemed to help him focus. "I saw him stick a Xanax in the couch cushions after pretending to take it, he hasn't drank— drinken? Drunk?—" Oh he was _far_ gone if he couldn't remember grammar rules. "—anything, and I don't think he knew that those had TBC..." Virgil snorted a little, not being able to help it, and Logan's brow furrowed, knowing he'd given the wrong acronym. "...D..." he slowly added.

The scrunching of his face suddenly lit up and alleviated when the answer came to him. "Is it THC? Yes, that." Amused, Virgil slow-clapped.

He groaned. They weren't listening to him, nor was he making much sense in the first place. Roman was too busy drooling over how "hot in an edgy way" Virgil was and how relaxed the increased dosage of marijuana was making him, and Logan was fairly surprised the emo hadn't professed his love with how unusually confident it was making him. (Logan was of the belief that they should just make out already because he much preferred that to the disgusting tension between them.)

"Don't leave me here to go fuck. I'll be back," Logan stated blatantly, ignoring how his friends' faces heated up as they pretended to be repulsed. Ready to go talk to the boy _he'd_ been drooling over, he spun on his heel, only to freeze and whip back around to look at his friends with wide eyes when he found him to be gone. "Where'd he go?" he quickly asked.

"Outside," Roman supplied, trying to figure out why that would be such a cause for concern until he finally caught up. If the boy hadn't ever done anything before, a _handful_ of gummy bears could mean that he was very much not okay right now, not to mention that he was around a lot of steep stairs by going outside.

Alert now, Virgil instinctively grabbed Roman's bicep, snapping his head to urgently look at him before bolting after the blond. Logan didn't understand their ability to wordlessly communicate, but followed nonetheless.

When they all arrived to find the boy in one piece, albeit dazed, Virgil allowed himself a moment to breathe before coming up beside him to check on him with gentle concern that Roman watched with a brief flash of adoration. It was a bit chilly outside. "Hey, are you—"

The boy's eyes fell shut in finality, and he slumped forward, everyone's stomach lurching in the fear that Virgil wouldn't catch him.

There was a collective sigh as his arms shot forward, and he cursed under his breath with a wave of concern for the stranger. Virgil's eyes flickered between Roman and Logan as he held the unconscious boy steady. "What should we do? Take him back to your place? What if someone's looking for him?" he fretted. He'd never had to take care of a high stranger before.

"I don't think anyone's looking for him," Logan informed sadly. No one responded, just let their eyes linger depressingly on the boy.

Virgil looked to the sober one. "Roman?"

The boy in question flinched, righting his stiff posture. "Yeah, we can take him back to my room. That's fine," he agreed, nodding. He was still shocked over the sudden turn of events.

Logan moved forward, knowing Virgil wouldn't be able to so much as get the boy two inches off the ground, and knew that he could carry him even in his state. His friends looked skeptical.

"You sure you're good to carry him, Lo?" Virgil inquired, using a tone that made Logan feel like a child.

The nerd looked him straight in the eyes, and with the calmest and clearest voice, said, "I may be inebriated, but I am most certainly not useless when I am needed. I can carry a... 132 pound boy down the hall." Logan was hardly ever wrong when he guessed someone's weight. He knew this, and pushed up his glasses in his own state of self-satisfaction.

Virgil nodded slowly, less paranoid than he'd normally be, and caught speechless at the jarring way Logan had spoken. The gentle nerd's expression softened and he replaced the emo's vigilant hold with his own, Virgil stepping away so that Logan could slip one arm beneath this entrancing blond's legs and the other under his arm and around-side his chest before lifting. Despite the difficulty of picking up so much weight in such an awkward position, Virgil was never needed from where he stood on a lower step in case they fell.

All the teen with the circular-framed glasses did in response was groan.

The next moment they found themselves in was that of a loud silence. Roman and Virgil exchanged looks, a smitten Logan between the two of them, carefully watching the dead weight in his arms for any sign of awareness. Neither had ever seen him so... soft before. But then again, with how cute the round cheeks and freckles of the sleeping boy were, nobody could quite blame him.

Nearly an entire minute later, the thing that broke the silence would be Virgil's small, repressed laughter through his nose because he was beginning to realize how he could not take Logan one bit serious with the blue tie on his head. Roman just looked bewildered, a common expression he wore when it came to Virgil. Logan just shot his friend a look. Then he turned his attention back to the person in his arms, and the change in his face was instant. "Do you think he's aware at all?" he softly asked.

Virgil helpfully shrugged. "Let's get him back to Ro's before you drop him," he suggested.

Even though Logan knew he wouldn't, Virgil's words were enough to get Logan swiftly to the apartment. The whole way there, he could hear the jangling of metal, and guessed that the boy must have driven himself here, which was a good thing because it meant that (hopefully) nobody would wait up for him and he could get home tomorrow. He just hoped he still had his phone...

Then it was through the door of the apartment they went. Logan's eyes didn't move from the boy the entire time, especially because he'd begun making small noises, clenching the hand that didn't dangle out of reach into Logan's shirt like he was his protector.

Logan's heart had been stolen.

Roman flicked on the lights, and led the way to his bedroom. His parents weren't home, spending the weekend in Florida for their anniversary, so he wouldn't get in trouble for where he'd been. "You can put him on my bed," he informed, "I'll go get water in case he wakes up." Contrary to his words, Roman remained in the room, looking between the three other boys. "Virgil, you wanna come with me?" he offered, holding out his hand.

Virgil stared at it as if he'd never seen a hand before. Roman was persistent, and he smirked at the blush across the fair one's face, only sparking the defiance in Virgil so that the emo took his hand to "prove a point." Then the two were gone, and Logan was left to protect the fragile-looking teen. He was at a loss for what to do. What if he did something wrong? Should he tuck him in, or was it too hot for that?

The nerd caved, humming as he pulling the sheets aside from where the boy lay, and neatly draped them over him, taking off his glasses. After a worrying sway, he simply brushed the hair away from the boy's eyes, and decided it was best if he sat down on the bed. There he remained until the other two eventually returned much later looking a little funny and forced him to play cards.

***

_Come down._

Laughing.

"... that's offensive..."

A loud, sharp gasp. "Logan!"

Logan? Who was Logan? Why couldn't he wake up? When had they been laughing? Minutes ago? Hours ago?

Patton forced his hands to move first, then his feet, just trying something— anything— to rouse himself from his state of unawareness. There were sheets beneath him, and a muted part of his mind told him that he didn't know where he was. That thought alone was enough to send his heart racing in panic. It wasn't enough, however, to wake him up fully, so he simply whimpered, attempting to open his eyes.

Silence. Not a word, a laugh, a brush of cards together. Nothing.

"Logan, give him some space. You don't want to scare him," warned a voice after a minute in which there had been a scramble and then a thud fairly close to him.

Patton found that it would probably be easier to get up if he turned on his side, so he did just that, the weight of a down comforter surprising him. They'd tucked him in? Usually people who were asleep and abandoned at a party were just left how they were, and impersonally sent home in the morning. That thought sent a thousand more questions firing off in his mind. Who was he being cared for by and why? What time was it? What day was it? What had been in those gummy bears and how much?

The blurry world finally decided to make an appearance, and when it did, it immediately presented him with a dark-haired, bespectacled boy kneeling beside whoever's bed he was in. If he was seeing it right, he looked curious— concerned, almost. Patton blinked. His body felt like there was a thick blanket holding him down other than the one already on him, so he was having trouble doing much else other than staring.

His face was really close.

Riddled with confusion, he managed to sit up. Two other boys the same age sat on the carpeted floor in the middle of the room, black and white cards in-hand, and staring at them frozenly. There were too many questions for him to sort out, so he started with something simple that he could control. "Where are my glasses?" he asked, voice barely more than air and on the verge of breaking.

_Hurting._

He felt like crying.

The boy whose face he'd woken up to moved to retrieve what he was looking for from the nightstand, and yet again Patton didn't understand such consideration. What was he to them, anyways? Even his own friends wouldn't have done any of this. So why were strangers taking him home, putting him in a bed, tucking him in, and taking off his glasses?

He gingerly took the round things from the boy's hand, sliding them onto his face, the world instantly coming better into focus.

Oh.

_Oh, he was **cute.**_

Even with how unkempt he looked— _especially_ with how unkempt he looked— Patton was smitten.

"H-Hello," Patton greeted. The look of absolute attentiveness he was getting was all-too adorable. He could barely stand it.

The words that came out of this stranger's mouth— Logan, if he'd heard right— surprised him. "Are you alright?" God, his voice was so deep and soft all at once.

Patton shook himself. He was probably straight, anyways. Most people he ended up liking usually were.

"Yes," he said unsurely. It wasn't exactly a lie, for he was alright now, but he hadn't been, and the thought of that still lingered and made him emotionally not okay.

He got a good look at the pair sitting on the floor, and goodness did that emo one look absolutely adorable and timid. Seriously, somebody wrap him up in a blanket and protect him. Then there was the other one whose stereotype Patton couldn't quite place, but he seemed to have the same happy and bubbly energy, and something about him just felt right to be seen by the shy one's side. Like he was his protector.

But at the end of the day, he was simply avoiding looking at the one right next to him because by _god_ how could someone be that hot? Those eyes, a darker blue than any he'd seen, only brought out by the black of his shirt, ignited a deep red in Patton's cheeks. It was quite enough to distract him from his current predicament. If only for a moment, at least.

Ocean-eyes-boy's gaze flickered over him once more as if he could taste the lie, trying to view the truth for himself. Resigned, he gave a short nod. "If you're sure..." He paused, biting his lip with a look that said he was never at a loss for words, and that this moment in which he was was an astronomical event. "I'm Logan," he decided on, "That is Roman—" he turned over his shoulder and gestured to the protector, now with his hand subconsciously over the emo's, who Logan's point moved to next— "and that's Virgil. You are?"

Patton thought their names were all so lovely and unique, feeling less like an outsider with his own strange name. The emo seemed to be in a state of the good kind of panic, and Patton's lips quirked upward into a smile at the sight. It seemed they _weren't_ already together. Though from the few seconds he'd been in their presence, their looks and body language told of how it wasn't long before they would be. Patton just knew these sorts of things.

"Patton," he supplied after a pause. He had countless questions of his own, and knew that it was any second now that they'd come tumbling out of his mouth.

And they did. "Where am I? What time is it? _Why are you being so nice to me?_ " He squeezed his eyes shut, besotted with sudden panic and overwhelming emotion that brought a hurricane of tears to his eyes.

Logan hushed him soothingly, taking his small and weak hand into his own two as if it were a butterfly he knew would suffer if the dust on its wings was rubbed off. "It's okay, Patton," he assured with a voice that could convince him to do anything. The tears receded just a little at the distraction and the calming effect hearing his name had, and his ears suddenly decided that the only thing they'd ever listen to again was that voice. Patton took a breath and nodded. "We noticed you looked uncomfortable at the party, and that it was possible you didn't know that the gummy bears were made with THC, so when you disappeared suddenly, we thought to check on you. You were outside, and when Virgil went to ask you if you were okay, you simply passed out," he began to explain. Roman and Virgil got up one right after the other, and stood by Logan's side, looking down at him.

Roman nervously scratched the back of his neck, informing, "Nearly tumbled right down the stairs." Patton's heart jumped at that, suddenly all the more grateful for the three of them.

Logan continued. "We're just down the hall from the party, in Roman's apartment. It's only been..." He checked his watch— who had a watch nowadays?— which Patton found endearing. "... an hour and twenty seven minutes since we retrieved you." The blond was impressed.

The shy one blew his bangs out of his eyes, looking away as he initiated the holding of Roman's hand— which both surprised and flustered him in a comedic mix— and Patton waited for his anticipated addition. "And we're not being nice. We're just being humanly decent to someone who got drugged at a party," he crucially clarified. There seemed to be a certain bitter edge to his voice, but he could tell it wasn't directed at him, more at the people who made him think that this was nice and not basic courtesy. Then his voice melted into softer concern than even _he_ could muster with an, "Are you sure you're okay?" He seemed to know what was going on in Patton's head; what words he needed to hear, and it was in that moment that Patton knew he'd gotten it wrong. _Virgil_ was the protector, not Roman.

They'd made it clear to him that they were people he could freely open up to. That feeling alone was one of the biggest reliefs in his life, the weight of over two years of hiding behind a mask being lifted off his shoulders, a feeling so intense that he could just curl into one of them and sob all night. But he didn't. That was for another time. For now, he'd just smile. "I _didn't_ know that they were edibles, and it _was_ scary," he confessed. "But I'm okay now." There had never been a more sure thing in his heart.

He made eye contact with all of them, painful sincerity flooding his voice when he said, "I can't thank you all enough. You have no idea how much this means to me, and if not for you, I could've been left at the bottom of a staircase." The oh-so gentle hand beneath his own was squeezed as a way to handle the words he spoke.

They all saw the heavy meaning behind his words— the way the kindness of strangers had done more for him in a few minutes than his friends had in years— in the deeply appreciative look he gave them, tears welling behind those cute glasses of his for the briefest of seconds. And though he didn't know it at the time, they all decided in that moment that he would be theirs to fiercely protect for as long as he wanted them around, which would come to be as long as they still had breath in their lungs. They would never try to pressure him into doing anything he didn't want to, regardless of if they were doing it themselves, and he would always be looked after. They would do things they _all_ wanted to do.

They would treat each other like people.

_Learning._

There were several sniffles from everyone in the room that startled Patton, but before anyone had time to linger on their feelings, they were interrupted by Roman. "Right!" he announced with a watery-eyed, smiling clap. "You're staying here tonight." Although Patton wouldn't have argued otherwise, he found it amusing that he wasn't given a choice. _He_ was supposed to adopt people, not the other way around. "Would you like to play Cards Against Humanity, or have us dorks leave you alone so you can sleep?" Roman inquired playfully. He was quite the charmer. It was no wonder the emo seemed smitten.

And with those few words that held a much deeper meaning to Patton than a mere question, he grinned. It was a choice, something he wasn't forced into, and it was _simple_. He didn't have to worry about anything bad happening because it was just a few sweet, dorky teens playing cards, and it was all he'd ever wanted. They'd even end up all watching cartoons together on the couch in the morning, ranting about whatever show they watched, and laughing without a care in the world, Patton supplying his number before he was eventually forced to leave. He'd never felt this at home with anyone in his life.

The nightmare that had been his high school experience was opening up into a beautiful dream, and for the first time in a long time, he was looking forward to things. 


End file.
